


Run, Rabbit, Run

by honey_lemonade_dreams



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Inspired by song, My First Fanfic, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character Death(s), Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), Singing, Smoking, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), TMA season 1, Well - Freeform, but only a little of both, how can you tell, no description or anything like that, not very graphic, why yes i listened to run rabbit run while writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24260773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_lemonade_dreams/pseuds/honey_lemonade_dreams
Summary: Statement of Edward Jones, regarding an incident in South Yorkshire.A 'missing statement", set mid-season 1.There is a Hunter in the lane.
Kudos: 4





	Run, Rabbit, Run

Statement of Edward Jones, regarding an incident in south Yorkshire.

Original statement given 23rd of September, 2014.

Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.

Statement begins.

I would like to begin this statement by saying that I have had three psychological evaluations since the night of the incident, all of which have come back saying that I am mentally sound. I have never taken drugs of any kind, and although I did have a few drinks that night, I was not drunk. I am telling you this because I want to make it perfectly clear that what I saw was real, and not a product of my imagination.

Myself and a few of the lads had gone for a post-match pint - rugby match, that is. It was a warm night, and when the Stag and Laurel had to close early because the landlord’s wife had gone into labour, we decided to take the scenic route to the King’s Head. The lane we went down was one of those old ones, like a tunnel between the trees, and since cars hardly ever came that way it was the perfect spot for a quiet smoke. It was only just getting dark, so it wasn’t too surprising when we saw someone walking down the lane towards us. As they got closer, we saw that it was a lass who had maybe had enough to drink to make her a bit jolly.

I’ll describe her to you how I told the police. She was young, as I said, of middling height, and stocky. Her shaggy dark hair, reaching past her shoulders, covered her face a bit, but she looked up at the sky as she walked, so you could see her features. I remember thinking she looked a bit of a baby face. Her eyes caught the lamplight, which is the only explanation I have for why they looked yellow. It was a nice night, as I said, but not so warm as to justify her wearing a vest and shorts, I think. I remember that they looked a bit like men’s clothes, with how baggy and worn they were. She walked in a meandering sort of way, with her hands in her pockets, and whistled a funny tune — one of them old war songs, _Run Rabbit Run_.

We watched her walk down, more out of a lack of anything else to do than genuine interest. As she got closer to us, she dug out a pack of smokes and asked us for a light. Dan - that’s Daniel Thomson — lit her cigarette, and she thanked him, made some comment about it being a nice night, and moved on again. It would’ve been perfectly normal, except, as she began walking, she looked each of us in the eye, and said, "I’ll see you boys later."

She didn’t sound local, I remember that — maybe Irish or American. Bit strange, we thought, to say to strangers.

We tried to forget about the encounter, as she’d made us…uneasy, I think is the right word. Maybe it was the way her teeth had seemed terribly white and very sharp, gleaming in the darkness as she spoke. Maybe it was the way that, although her eyes couldn’t’ve been yellow, I can’t tell you what other colour they could’ve been. Maybe it was the way she moved — like a herd dog through cattle, easy and self-assured among much bigger creatures.

Whatever it was, when we next saw her the fear ran through us like lightning.

We had turned the corner and begun walking down the most isolated part of the lane, where there were no houses for maybe a mile — only farmland stretching away under the night sky. There, under the moonlight, she was crouched in the middle of the road. I told the police and I’ll tell you, I have no idea how she got there before us. There just isn’t any way it could’ve happened. We stopped dead, facing her.

It seems silly now, how afraid we were; five big rugby lads facing a smallish lass, logic dictates that she had more cause to be frightened of us than we of her. And yet there we were, shaking in our boots.

I can’t tell you how long we stood there, facing each other. Dread welled in my stomach, but I couldn’t move, or speak. All I could hear was the heavy, panicked breathing of my mates as we stared at the strange creature watching us.

She stood, jerking herself upright, and we could move. We ran, panicking, into the fields, and I knew she followed.

The only thing in my head was that I needed to get away, outrun the - the thing that hunted us. Over the noise of my own panting, I realised she was singing as she followed. It was the song she was singing earlier — but she was changing the words.

_Run, rabbit, run, run, run_

_Giving the hunter her fun, fun, fun_

_Won’t get by just eating rabbit pie_

_Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run!_

Ironically, it was a rabbit hole that saved my life. I put my foot in it, crashing down behind a water trough, and scrambled behind it, biting down on my hand to keep myself from screaming at my twisted ankle. I looked under the trough, and what I saw will, I think, stay with me all my life.

The creature — she certainly wasn’t a human woman, I knew that — was running after Dan. She had changed; coarse dark hair covered her limbs, her face seemed longer somehow, and I could see the gleam of fangs in the moonlight.

Dan was a forward second row, the biggest lad on the team. I had seen him run down a pitch with three men hanging off him. He was a brick wall made man.

She leapt on his back, and he dropped like a rag doll.

I shut my eyes then, but the screaming still features in my nightmares. When I finally gathered the nerve to open them, she was gone, and Dan was dead on the grass. Ripped to pieces.

Neither Derek nor Steve saw it happen, and the autopsy report says he was mauled by a large dog, maybe a mastiff or Alsatian or something like that. The police say it wasn’t a homicide, and only said they would be on the look out for a big dog. I don’t buy a word of it. The only dogs round here are herd dogs or pets, and I have never seen anything bigger than a border collie in this village.

I gave the police my description, as did Derek and Steve, but they said it was just a coincidence The therapist said the trauma of watching my friend die made me rationalise it, that it was my brain trying to make sense of what I had witnessed.

I say bullshit. I know exactly what I saw. I don’t know if it was a weird government experiment gone wrong, or something like…I don’t know, a werewolf or whatever, but I can tell you that that woman we met earlier that night was who — or what — killed my friend.

It wasn’t human, I can tell you that much. No human could’ve done what that thing did. I don’t know if you people do detective work or just research or whatever, but this is my last hope of getting justice for my friend.

Statement ends.

Closing remarks.

Daniel Thomson was indeed killed by what appeared to be a large animal on the evening of July 18th, 2013. I asked Tim to look over the autopsy report for me, as he knows more about dogs than I do, and he says that it doesn’t seem like something that even a very large dog could be capable of. Additionally, there are no reports of sightings of a dog matching the description the police gave in that area.

I do think Mr. Jones’ therapist was correct in assuming that the idea of it being some sort of werewolf is an attempt to rationalise a traumatic event. I find that when statement givers begin to wander off into delusions of government conspiracies and supernatural creatures, it shows a lack of acceptance of what is indeed a tragic event.

I do find myself wondering, however, what the true nature of Mr. Thomson’s death could have been. I asked Martin to do some follow up, but Mr. Jones declined to make a follow-up statement, and there was no further information to be found regarding the case. Apparently, the local police have declared it a cold case, and are extremely reluctant to discuss the matter further.

I did, however, notice some similarities in this statement to that of Lawrence Mortimer regarding his hunting trip in Virginia. The detail of the unknown woman’s American accent, the singing and whistling before and during the supposed hunt, and both statement givers noting a change in physical appearance before the hunt. It could indicate a cult of sorts, similar to the Church of the Lightless Flame, except this is focused on some sort of hunting or pursuit. Worth further investigation, I believe, but unfortunately I cannot spare any staff to go gallivanting off to America at this time. I will bring it up with Elias, but until then I might just ask Sasha to look through statements to see if there are any others similar to this.

End recording.

**Author's Note:**

> I am English but from the Midlands, for my sins, so hopefully the statement reads true to Yorkshire. If there are any jarring inaccuracies, please let me know. Loved it? Hated it? Want more? Let me know in the comments! Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
